


Predilection

by comixologist



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Confession, First Kiss, M/M, Pre-Slash, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-07
Updated: 2010-11-07
Packaged: 2017-10-13 03:01:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comixologist/pseuds/comixologist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mohinder has always prefered gentlemen of size.</p><p>Originally posted to matt_mohinder in December of 2007.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Predilection

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ryuutchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryuutchi/gifts).



> I wrote this because I noticed there's a lot of Matt/Mo fic going around focusing on how hot Mohinder is. I decided to flip that on its head, so this one's all about what Mohinder thinks is so damn hot about Matthew. That's right, in this fic, Matt's the hot one, and Mohinder's the one all tied up in knots over it.

Mohinder had agreed to invite Matthew into his home for many reasons. The first and most important was Molly, as she said she loved him and he certainly wasn't going to challenge her feelings. The second reason was that it was easier to monitor him when he was snoring away in the next room. The third, most dangerous reason, was that the first time Mohinder laid eyes on Matt his breath hitched and his stomach knotted and his skin went cold. It was not love, but a sharp and aggressive pang of wanting that Mohinder had not felt since he left India.

He had never told his parents about his preferences, but was certain his mother knew by the time he was fourteen. He tolerated their attempts to introduce him to girls of the same caste, whose parents had been their friends or professional acquaintances. He was always polite, courteous on arranged evenings out, always obliging when the girls expected him to kiss them, but inevitably he left as uninterested and unsatisfied as ever. When he began university, at the Indian Institute of Science, in Bengaluru, Mohinder suffered that same intense full-body response to another person for the first time. The man in question was an imported lecturer from Edinburgh with salt-and-pepper hair and small but intense dark eyes. Like Matthew, he was taller than anyone Mohinder had known in his youth (practically two meters tall in his shoes) and broad enough to fill a doorway. His shoulders were wide and sloping, his neck thick and strong, and his hawkish nose gave him what Mohinder thought was a stunning profile.

That first day of advanced biochemistry, Mohinder had imagined what having such large, thick-fingered hands on him would feel like. They were so unlike his own skinny, bony things. Mohinder had the hands of a pianist or a surgeon, delicate and precise and useless for any sort of domestic chores. He admired the way that large, strong, fleshy fingers wrapped around chalk and test-tubes, all strength and caution with delicate tools. This professor, like Matthew, wore suits cut to give him extra room so it didn't seem tight across his chest or over his stomach, under which a flash of belt buckle was visible on rare occasions. Whenever that metal caught the light, Mohinder's body would react again, as he considered how best to un-buckle, un-button, and un-zip.

Mohinder discovered that year why the young girls his mother paraded before him had never lit the fire in him that they had in his classmates, but did not test out his theory until he was in graduate study, in London. His partner in studies was a nelly little thing from Manchester who somehow managed to go back and forth between football with the guys and a particularly tacky pub that played music that never failed to give Mohinder a headache. It was out of some sort of loneliness that Mohinder had accompanied him to a new club that had gotten good press, one that left his lab partner irritable because all the men were "old and overweight".

They couldn't have been more than thirty, honestly, but thirty is old to most in their early twenties. Mohinder stayed after his friend left him behind, because he had caught the eye of the bartender. His name, ironically, had been Matthew, and he was tall as the sky and broad as the ocean, blonde and utterly beautiful so far as Mohinder was concerned.

Aside from the name and the number that came up on the scale, though, he had nothing in common with Parkman. Mohinder liked that. What Mohinder did not like was knowing that, inevitably, once the anesthetic wore off and Matt came to his senses, he would know. Matthew was a telepath, after all, and keeping secrets from him seemed a moot and generally foolish point. Mohinder had never been one for confessing to his proclivities, though, and did not look forward to the day when Matthew strode out of the shower looking like some water-god, and heard all of the things that would be going through Mohinder's mind.

When it happened, as Mohinder knew it inevitably would, Matt had been doing laundry in his boxer-briefs, completely unaware of the way that seeing the curve of his ass and the curve of his cock made Mohinder's thighs ache. Mohinder had been thinking about chromosome pairs and gene therapy and cornering Matt against the drier so that he could sink to his knees and bury his nose in the warm, soft flesh of the inside of Matt's thigh. He watched the thought hit Matthew from behind, knew from the way his shoulders tensed and he cocked his head to the side. It didn't stop the thought from completing itself, Mohinder wondering how long it would take him to get Matt hard with his mouth, and just how those huge, powerful hands of his would manage to be so gentle buried in Mohinder's curls. Mohinder watched Matt swallow and glance over his shoulder at him, his ears and cheeks flushed pink with uncertainty and embarrassment. Mohinder did not look away or attempt to deceive his roommate, opting instead to take a sip of his tea and confess, "I'd meant to tell you, earlier."

Matthew squirmed, obviously self-conscious in a way he hadn't been before, suddenly very much aware of the way that Mohinder's gaze always seemed to linger on him. "Wh-what?"

"What I think of you," Mohinder explained. "I'd meant to tell you before you heard."

In his defense, this was the first day they'd both had off while Molly was in class. Mohinder set down his pen and rose to his feet, pulling his eyes away from Matt's naked chest to focus on setting the kettle on. Matthew pulled on a t-shirt with attempted nonchalance, clearly unnerved by what he had heard.

"What, uh, what you think of me?" Matthew asked, apparently trying to play up his role as big dumb cop. Mohinder was unconvinced.

"And how I think of you," Mohinder affirmed, setting his teacup down and turning to face the taller man. Again, Matthew swallowed. Mohinder regarded him for a moment, considering what to say and how to say it.

 

"You're," he began, hesitating. There was no need, clearly, to tell Matthew that he was attracted to men. Matthew must surely have deduced that, if not from the thoughts that had just barreled through his brain, from the small clues Mohinder had been leaving in hopes that Matthew himself would be the one to approach the topic. "I've always had a…"

Then, of all times, Mohinder found himself at a loss for words. Matthew was still squirming.

"I'm sorry. Nevermind. I'll… control myself, Matthew. I've made you uncomfortable, which was never my intention. Apologies." Mohinder swallowed his cowardice and turned back to the stove.

 

Matt did not attempt to find out what it was that Mohinder had meant to say for another three weeks. When he asked it was forceful, and Mohinder - for all his embarrassment - simply _couldn't_ not say it: "You're easily one of the most attractive men I've ever known."

It was not what Matt had been expecting, to be told he was beautiful by a man he thought embodied the word. It left him full of questions, which meant Mohinder was full of questions, questions he _had_ to answer.

 

When Matt asked why, and for how long, and what on earth about him was beautiful, Mohinder laughed and explained it. He described that first sensation, in Bengaluru, the initial fantasy in perhaps too-vivid detail. It left Matt breathing heavily. He described the way he had always reacted to men of considerable stature, how when he first saw Matt he imagined digging his fingers into the flesh of his ass to pull him in further, closer, faster. Mohinder confessed to imagining Matt's thick fingers exploring him, inside and out, imagining Matt's weight pinning him to a mattress or rocking beneath him. Mohinder could see that his admissions had left Matthew thinking the same things, though Mohinder would never understand how a man might find someone so fragile and wiry attractive.

Matt's protest was not what Mohinder had expected, though. It was not that they had only come together for Molly, or that he was so freshly divorced, or even that Mohinder was a man, though all of those things would surely come up later. It was that he could not believe that someone -- anyone, it seemed -- would honestly lust after him.

"But I'm, you know. I'm fat. And kind of…well, ordinary. Nothing special," Matthew said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Even Janice turned me down the first time I asked her out."

"Her taste is questionable," Mohinder said. "And I am benefiting from it."  
"Benefiting?" Matthew laughed then, still pink and embarrassed.  
"I should say so."

The space between them was barely two meters. Mohinder closed it. Matthew tasted of stale coffee and cinnamon toast. The kiss left them both breathless.


End file.
